


That Book

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2019 [4]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, Dark, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Prompt Fic, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Holmes is fascinated with a strange book and Watson is suspicious of its effects.Written for: JWP #4: "Nothing So Good As A Good Book: Include a favorite book or work of literature in your entry today.-Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts.Warnings:Lovecraftian implications, Dark themes, Horror, Impending tragedy.





	That Book

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning to do these prompts as drabbles, but haven't managed it very well beyond the first two; so, think of this as a quintuple drabble. Also, I think it will be pretty obvious which book I'm referencing in this one (or which book from another series of books, depending on how you look at it). For the first time in almost ever, I'm writing something that doesn't have a happy ending. Fair warning, dear readers.

Watson stirred the coals in the grate with a poker before nestling in another log. That terrible chill was back, and had been growing worse since... it sounded mad to even think it, let alone contemplate _saying_ it... ever since Holmes returned to studying that book. Glancing at the wall separating the sitting room from Holmes’ bedroom, Watson pulled his smoking jacket closer about him, feeling a shiver along his spine that had little to do with the cold creeping along the floor of their rooms.

That damnable book. Why had Holmes felt compelled to travel all the way to the States to see it? Why hadn’t Watson protested more strongly against Holmes borrowing it from Miskatonic University? All on the recommendation of a former associate of the deceased Professor Moriarty. Something about that book had struck Watson as wrong from the start. Viscerally wrong. And yet Holmes had been so intrigued, so excited about the thing, how could Watson refuse to support him? And yet...

A faint thumping from the other side of the wall broke into Watson’s dark musings. “Holmes?” he called out as he approached Holmes’ bedroom door. The tips of his slippers went cold from the icy breeze flowing out from the gap at the bottom of the doorframe.

His knocking brought an indistinct moan from inside that blended into what sounded very like a muffled, drawn out, “Waaatsssonnn!”

Barging through the unlocked door, Watson found the room as cold as if the windows had been left open on a January night. Holmes sat at his writing desk, seemingly fine, with one hand upon the closed book and the other just then smoothing back his slightly mussed hair. “How may I assist you, my dear Watson?”

“Holmes, are you... I thought...” For just a moment, his confused words trailing off, Watson felt foolish, as if all his fretting had been over nothing but his own fantastic imaginings. But just before he actually spoke his apologies for intruding, he realised there was something odd about Holmes’ eyes. Something very like an oil slick, a swirl of black and dark green, obscured the normally keen grey orbs, solidifying into pools of darkness without sclera, iris, or pupil. Watson’s heart lurched in his chest, his whole body going cold with dread. Aloud, he managed to stammer out, “N-never mind, old boy. Thought I heard a noise. Carry on.”

“Of course, my dear friend.” Holmes nodded once and returned his swamp-water gaze to the hideous cover of the ancient tome before him. A subtle smile lingered about his lips.

Closing the door behind him, swallowing back what might have been a moan of his own, or even a despairing sob, Watson went to his own bedroom. To where he had spent so many happy years, dreaming of adventures past and more to come. To where he had once thought never to sleep again, until his dearest friend had miraculously returned to him.

To where he kept his faithful old revolver.


End file.
